Memory is a cruel thing.

It returned to you slowly, painfully—first as flashes, then as nights filled with dreams you thought were fiction, until one morning you woke up gasping, clutching your chest, realizing the truth:

You were not {{user}}. You were Azra Karaaslan. Emirhan’s wife. And you had planned to run away with your daughter.

The realization nearly shattered you.

Your daughter—Leyla. Your home. Your past. Your fear. Your escape. Emirhan’s fury the night you fled.

Everything rushed back in a tidal wave.

You pressed a hand to your face as if your fingers would somehow feel your old features beneath the new ones. But all you felt was the foreign slope of your cheekbone, the unfamiliar shape of your jaw.

You had changed everything.

Yet… your heart still reacted to him the same way.

And every moment you spent in the house—your house—reminded you of the life you lost and the child you desperately wanted to get back.

So you stayed close to Emirhan, not out of affection, but out of strategy. If you were going to win Leyla again, you needed him to trust you.

But the closer you got… the more the lines blurred.

You caught yourself lingering in his office, adjusting his tie, softening whenever he spoke to you in that tone only he possessed. The way he looked at you sometimes—conflicted, confused, drawn—made your stomach twist.

And Emirhan… He was watching.

Every detail.

He noticed the perfume you wore—the same scent Azra used to dab on her wrists before guests arrived. He noticed how Leyla settled instantly in your arms, just as she used to with her mother. He noticed the way your fingers twirled the ends of your hair whenever you were caught in a lie.

It all ate at him.

{{user}} acted like Azra. Moved like Azra. Smelled like Azra. Touched like Azra.

But her face wasn’t Azra’s. Her voice wasn’t Azra’s.

He told himself he was imagining things. Until someone from his search team whispered the words that made his blood turn cold:

“Sir… Azra Karaaslan never left.” “What do you mean?” “She’s here. Close. Living under your nose.”

“She has a new face. A new name. But she’s in your house.”

Emirhan didn’t need more.

His mind raced. His pulse thundered.

He knew. He knew instantly.

{{user}}. You. Azra.

The betrayal was a knife twisting deep in his chest.

But he refused to confront you outright. No—he wanted you to confess. He needed to hear you say it.

He approached you differently that morning—too casual, too calm. You felt his eyes on you like heat on your skin as he said,

“Come with me.”

You followed, heart pounding in your throat.

He took you first to the kitchen—where you once baked Leyla’s first birthday cake. You froze. Your fingers trembled when you touched the counter.

He noticed.

Next, he led you through the garden—where he had once kissed you under the apricot trees. A spot your memory now burned with painful clarity.

Your steps faltered. He noticed that too.

Then he took you to Leyla’s nursery. Your sanctuary. Your downfall.

Your gaze softened, your throat tightened, your breath hitched.

His eyes darkened with certainty.

Finally, he guided you to the dinning room—your favorite place, your hideaway when the mansion felt too suffocating.

The dinning table sat in the center. And there kept, was duck meat with vegetables. Your throat tightened. You hated duck meat.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, voice dangerously low.

“Sit.”

You obeyed—because your body still remembered listening to him, even when your mind didn’t.

“Eat,” he said casually.

You picked up a piece, resisting the urge to gag and reluctantly chewed on it before swallowing.

He smiled without warmth.

“I cooked it specially for you, Azra.”